


Candlelight

by ShadowHaloedAngel



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Child abuse (implied, Grief, Guilt, Memories, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/pseuds/ShadowHaloedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the light of the candle, Veld remembers the one he couldn't save...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candlelight

There's something special about candlelight, something unique, magical. The flickering warmth, so fragile, yet so dependable, the wisps of smoke evanescing in the darkness. It's gentle, forgiving, and yet there is always something more.

A candle does not banish the darkness, it merely chases it into the corners, allows the shadows to regroup and grow, prowling around the perimeter of that small circle of hope.

Veld liked candlelight. It was a pleasant change from the glare of the overhead halogen strips, so bright they hurt his eyes within hours of settling down to work, and so it was his secret... almost vice, he supposed. Just a few candles, for a few hours felt like salve to his soul. He may have been a Turk, and most would say that rendered him soulless, but, it may have been black, it may have been cracked, but his soul was still there, and sometimes he felt that quivering, leaping, hypnotic flame was the tenuous chain which kept it there.

It had started innocently enough - a dust-covered taper in a long-forgotten corner of a desk drawer, and a night late enough for the power to the offices to be cut for a few hours. Simple origins for what had grown into his most sacred ritual. Now, once a month, he would invest a few hours into selecting materials for the late nights to come.

The flame began guttering, and almost mechanically, Veld reached for the next column of wax from his drawer. He placed it with almost excessive care over the old flame, extinguishing it and sealing this new one seamlessly into its base. He reached for the matches - so much more pleasant than the synthetic lighters. The small sticks had an allure all their own, and that sharp smell as they came to life in a sudden burst of illumination was one of his favourite parts.

He didn't remember this candle, but then, he never did, and he never cared. For all the time and effort he put into choosing them, once they were burning, nothing mattered but the light. When the sweet scent rose up and pricked his nostrils, Veld tensed, half reaching for the flame, torn between the craving for the soothing light, and the need to escape the tide of memories.

He closed his eyes, seeing jade-green ones staring up at him, silent, pleading. He couldn't help, and he hated that. He remembered that helplessness, the desperation and the disgust, and the lost memories of that child.

In the darkness of his office, in the middle of the night, with the lonely flame of a flickering candle for company, Veld wept.


End file.
